


Stag Nation

by wingthing



Series: The EQ Alternaverse [47]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: EQ Alternaverse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:07:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingthing/pseuds/wingthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Evertree, Bluestar learns a harsh lesson about "the Way"... and Littlefire is forced to question the future of the Holt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stag Nation

The airship glided over the Burning Waste. Bluestar leaned against the railing, peering at the sand dunes some five thousand elfspans below. Here and there, great sinkholes gaped open, some so deep he could not make their bottoms. 

“Stryker territory,” Varek ruled, his gravelly voice thick with contempt. “Every time we fly over, the pits are a little bigger.” 

“What are they digging for?” 

“Who knows? Maybe their king’s still convinced there’s a lode to be found. I think they just like to dig. They get like that, the misfits. Like picking a scab, they just can’t leave a thing alone. I think they won’t be happy until they’ve collapsed the entire Burning Waste.” 

Bluestar tried to imagine it: the vast sweep of the desert crumbling like a tripped pit-trap, leagues and leagues of sand disappearing into a yawning maw. He shuddered. 

“It’s a waste of good stone,” Varek agreed. “You should hear my brother go on about it. The things we could build if only we could get those misfits out of there. Five thousand years too late, if you ask me. There’s no proper maiden stone left in the Homeland.” 

It was true: over the millennia, elves, humans and trolls had advanced at a breakneck pace across the World of Two Moons in a race to colonize all they could. Even a place as inhospitable as the Burning Waste teemed with activity, from burrowing trolls to human caravans. 

The Steam Road had delivered Bluestar as far as the old station the trolls called Sarazen. From there the tunnel arced far to the west, towards the coast and Blue Mountain. Bluestar’s ancestors had crossed the Waste on foot, but the smiths of Blue Mountain had found a far safer route. 

Like their ancestors the Gliders, the trollkin had conquered the skies. Not with giant hawks, but with steam and brightmetal. Varek’s little ship was one of several plying the skies between Oasis and Blue Mountain, carrying trade goods and keeping watch on the rival clans – both troll and human. 

It was called the Wicked Wind, and Varek doted on it like a Waverider would his clipper, though it bore only a vague resemblance to a sea-going ship. The trough-shaped metal gondola seemed to hang quite clumsily under the great balloon, its rigging a tangle of steel cables. The steam-engine huffed and chugged night and day to keep the balloon inflated and the propellers turning. The Waveriders and the Islands prized form as well as function – Bluestar could only imagine what a sailor from the Mura or the Sea Holt would have to say about the Wicked Wind. Nothing he’d dare to repeat in front of Varek. 

The ship held a crew of six trollkin, all with different degrees of elf blood in their veins. Varek himself was proudly seven-thirty-seconds elf; he had informed Bluestar at their introduction. “Nineteenth great-great-grandson of King Smith!” he’d crowed, followed by a long recitation of his bloodline. Bluestar soon learned this was the standard greeting among the upper castes of Blue Mountain. Everyone who was anyone within the Mountain could chart their descent from Two-Edge with mathematical precision. 

The elf blood ran strong in Varek, despite its limited quantity. He stood a hair taller than the rest of his crew, and his skin was a milky gray that tended to burn in the sun, rather than the shades of slate and moss of the other trollkin. His face was blunt and square, with a nose any elf would consider unfortunately large – and any troll would consider disfiguringly small. Instead of the beards the other trollkin wore, Varek bore only a sprinkling of stubble on his chin, but his open-collared duster revealed a pelt of auburn chest hair. He’d caught Bluestar staring the first day and he’d laughed long and loud. 

“Sorry, kid. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer’s no. You need at least a three-quarters troll in you to grow anything this good.” 

Now Varek climbed up on the railing, one gloved hand on the rigging to steady himself as he fiddled with the lenses of his goggles. “Greymung’s Havoc, three spokes to starboard, five leagues ahead,” he called. 

“What’s that mean?” 

“It means we’ll be out of the desert by nightfall. About time – we should have passed the Havoc yesterday! Blasted crosswind.” 

“The wind is the wind,” Bluestar said philosophically. “You can’t do anything about it.” 

“And that sort of attitude is why your kin never learned to fly.” Varric pushed his goggles up on his forehead, revealing small blue eyes. He let out a sigh. “Well, if we’re lucky, we can make up some time over the forest.” 

Bluestar nodded politely, though he couldn’t imagine what harm a day’s delay would do. The biggest culture shock he’d faced aboard the Wicked Wind was the trollkin’s strict adherence to timetables. He’d thought he’d learned something of seaboard routine on the Sea Holt, but it was nothing compared to the mind-numbing precision of the trollkin and their ever-present pocket-watches. Still, he found it all rather invigorating, after a six months of enforced lassitude in Oasis. At least things happened with the trollkin! 

They flew over a particularly large sinkhole. Smoke wafted up from the underground forges. “Can they see us?” Bluestar said nervously. 

“Not well enough to see this,” Varek said, and leaned his arm out to make a rude gesture. “Don’t worry. Picknose’s folk might have bolts big enough to shoot down out of our ships, but these misfits would be lucky to work out a simple spring.” 

“Have you been up north? Over Picknose’s land?” 

“Kid, I’ve been everywhere over the years. You know, the world’s awfully small from up here. And getting smaller every century, it seems.” He sighed, his voice turning wistful. “I remember when I was a mump taking my first ride in an airship, and the sky seemed to go on forever. But now… colonies everywhere and not an inch on this world not mapped twice over by elves or trolls. Almost makes me want to sign on to the Homestead Scheme.” 

“Homestead?” 

“You know, the world just beyond ours. Don’t tell me they don’t have orreries in that fancy Egg of yours. You got the Daystar, then little Cauldron, then us, then Homestead and the Outer Worlds beyond it.” 

Bluestar nodded. “What about it?” 

“Well, it’s supposed to be a lot like our world. Only: no humans. No creatures much bigger than rats – not on land, anyway. A proper maiden world, just waiting to be claimed.” He smiled at the thought. “Long ago… just around the time your kin were signing the Pact with the humans, the All-Father suggested we move out there.” 

“We?” 

“You know, elves and trollkin. Set up a new colony. Start fresh.” 

“Haken wanted that? I’ve never heard of it.” 

“No, didn’t think you would have. The rest of the Circle voted against it. Three separate times, I think.” 

“Do you know why?” 

“Naw, I don’t really follow politics. I just remember: after the third time, the All-Father just… sort of let it go. And no one’s really brought it up again since then. Ah well, maybe after this fuss with the Palace showing up is over and done with… if the Palacemasters ever decide to put a crew together, I might just talk to Windstone about signing up.” 

Bluestar nodded thoughtfully, stored away the information for later. 

They watched the dunes roll beneath them in silence a while, then Varek said: “Well, kid, if I were you, I’d go grab some grub from the galley, and get a bit of sleep now. I’m afraid we’re going to have to do a drop-and-dash if we want to make up lost time to Blue Mountain.” 

Bluestar nodded obediently. He didn’t quite want to leave the scenery just yet, so he took his meal of flatbread and stuffed toadstools up on deck. As the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, he went below, to spread out his bedroll at the rear of the gondola. The steady huffing chug of the ship’s engine combined with the gentle sway of the ship soon put him fast to sleep. 

* * * 

He awoke to Waterleaf’s nonsensical chirps, and a sharp pull at his hair. He dressed in his cold-weather coat and climbed up on deck, hissing at the damp bite in the air. The airship was steadily descending through the grayish dawn. He felt his ears pop as the air grew thicker around him. 

“Are we at the Evertree?” he asked. His breath clouded in front of his face. In the heavy fog, he could scarcely make out the forest. But he could smell fresh cedar and crisp frost. 

“Unless it pulled up root since the last time I was here,” Varek quipped. “One way to be sure,” he cupped a hand to his mouth and let out a loud ululating cry. 

“Ayoooooo-yooooo-yoooooh?” 

“Flymuch Digthing no growler,” Waterleaf pronounced disdainfully. 

Bluestar struggled not to laugh. He was not entirely successful. “I know, my wolf-speak’s a little rusty. Ahhh….” Varek grinned proudly when an answering howl came up from somewhere below. “There you go. Better pack up. We’ll be in position before you know it.” 

Bluestar packed up his bedroll and his small bag of possessions. He was back on deck as the engine shifted into neutral, hovering just above the tips of gently swaying conifers. 

“We’re at treetops, boss!” the trollkin at the bow called. “Should we throw down mooring lines?” 

“Naw, just hold her steady and prep the bucket.” 

The bucket was large enough to carry three or four trolls. Varek hoisted Bluestar inside and handed him a small bundle that smelled of bread and spices. “I know those wolves don’t keep regular hours. Who knows when they’d get around to feeding you.” 

Bluestar did the only polite thing, and tucked the package into his rucksack. Within moments a crewmember was turning the crank and lifting the bucket by its thick cable. “Wait – what do I do?” Bluestar called. 

“Just enjoy the ride, and give a good holler when you get clear,” Varek shouted back. He waved a farewell. “Clear skies, kid!” 

“Clear skies,” Bluestar answered, but the bucket had already swung out over the side of the ship, and Varek disappeared behind the railings as the trollkin at the winch let out the cable. 

“Oooooooooh!” Waterleaf whistled as it clung to Bluestar’s shoulder. For his part, Bluestar held fast to the lip of the bucket as they descended into the clouds, their pace just barely above a controlled plummet. He squinted through the cold mist. He saw the ghostly outline of tree branches and inhaled the sharp scent of cedar. The world grew ever darker as he dropped further below the canopy. The tips of tree branches slapped against the sides of the bucket as the sound of the airship’s motor grew ever fainter. Peering over the side of the bucket, he saw the ground rushing up to meet him. He was dropping too fast – he would surely crash into the forest floor– 

“Waterl–” he began. 

The bucket lurched, the cable whipped sharply, and Bluestar fell to his knees. The touchdown, when it came, was light as a feather, but he knew he’d have bruises on his shins to show for it. 

Mindful of the ticking clocks aboard the Wicked Wind, Bluestar scrambled out of the bucket. His legs wobbled after three days in the air. “I’m clear!” he shouted back up through the mist, but he doubted they could hear. “Waterleaf, tell them,” he instructed, and the Preserver flew back up into the fog. 

Bluestar limped across the little clearing, trying to find his bearings by the moss on the trees and the faint glow through the branches. He heard a clatter over his shoulder and he turned just in time to see the bucket rising up on its cable. The trollkin raised it was far less finesse than they’d lowered it, and it crashed and bumped its way through the understory. By the time Waterleaf flew back down, the sounds had retreated again and all was still. 

“Well, this is it,” Bluestar said. “The Everwood.” His breath clouded in front of his face. 

“Chilly,” Waterleaf ruled. 

“Well, it’s just the start of the newgreen.” Dirty snow still gathered in the shade of trees, and the cedar trees had barely begun to bud. “Anyway, the Painted Mountains are colder this time of year.” 

“Why smart highthings stay safe inside Eggy-Home.” 

Bluestar couldn’t argue the point. He couldn’t shake a sudden pang at the thought of the College: warm stone walls and sunlight reflected through clearstone windows; smokeless fires and the constant buzz of sendings in the air. For just a moment, he felt so homesick he wanted to weep. 

The moment passed and he reminded himself that he had already explored lands far less familiar. This was Wolfrider land – the closest to home he’d been since his year at the Great Holt. He just had to find his way. 

He considered sending, then decided on something more traditional. He howled loud into the fog, two yips and a long wail: the call of a supplicant. Then he sat down on his bedroll and began to eat his breakfast of spiced bread. 

“What do now?” Waterleaf asked. 

“We wait,” Bluestar said. 

He didn’t have to wait long. 

He heard the rustle in the underbrush well before the first shadow emerged from the trees. One massive wolf bearing one fur-clad elf sprang into the clearing, followed by another, and another. Bluestar smiled brightly in greeting, but his expression faltered when he saw them draw their weapons. 

“Halt!” The female of the trio pointed her long spear at Bluestar. “Who dares invade our lands?” she demanded. She spoke with a slight accent, a shushing slur to her words. 

Bluestar wrinkled his nose. “My name’s Bluestar, and I’m not invading anything.” 

“Trollkin!” the bearded male sneered. “At least… I think he is.” Like the female, he was dressed in simple furs, and bore a stripe of paint – or was it dried blood? – across his nose. He too carried a spear – not brightmetal, but polished obsidian – and spoke with the same odd accent. “Puckernuts, they’re growing ’em smaller than I remember.” 

“I’m not trollkin!” Bluestar protested. “I told you – my name’s Bluestar. Your chief is expecting me.” 

They all started laughing scornfully. The younger male slapped his thigh so hard he made his wolf stagger, and the wolf snapped at him, bucking him off. He sprawled in the frost, still laughing heartily, but when Bluestar tried to take a step closer to him, he scrambled back to his feet and held up his dagger threateningly. 

“I think he’s a spy!” he decided. 

“A spy!” the female agreed. “A spy from Blue Mountain!” 

“What is wrong with you?” Bluestar demanded. The hunter with the dagger made a feint towards him and Waterleaf flew to the rescue, spitting wrapstuff in the hunter’s face. 

“Aughh! He’th got a bug!” the elf sputtered. “A thpitty-bug!” 

“‘Thpitty-bug!’” the female hooted with approval. “Love you, Elm!” 

The bearded elf dismounted and strode over to Bluestar. He seized the collar of his coat and lifted him off the ground. When Waterleaf tried to intervene, a swift backhand sent the Preserver reeling. 

“Hey, that’s my friend!” Bluestar protested. 

“What would our chief want with a little runt like you?” the hunter slurred, and Bluestar felt the reek of vinegar and dreamberries hit his face. So much for the accent. 

“I’m not a runt, I’m a child! And you’re drunk!” 

“What would our chief want with a little child like you?” the hunter repeated, unfazed. Bluestar struggled in his grasp, trying to wriggle free. 

“Didn’t – unnh – didn’t your mother teach you not to go hunting when you’re addled-brained?” 

“Bring my mother into this, will you?” the elf made a fist. 

“Hey, Burl,” the female piped up, suddenly sounding far more lucid. “He’s just a stripling.” 

“He needs a strip torn off him!” 

Bluestar kicked him hard in the groin. Burl dropped him, cursing, and Bluestar tried to run for Waterleaf. But the younger male – Elm, was it? – shouted “Bristles, guard!” and a wolf tackled Bluestar, pinning him to the ground. 

“Teach you to mouth off to me!” Burl growled, advancing on him. 

“Burl, shake it off!” the female snapped. 

“Shake you!” 

“I said leave him!” 

Bluestar heard the elves began to scuffle behind him, the female leaping off her wolf, leather boots sliding on frosty ground, the younger male laughing again. He heard the smack of flesh striking and a sharp yelp from the female. Now Elm had stopped laughing and was calling “Aww, come on, Burl.” The wolf on Bluestar’s back was growling in his ear and Bluestar couldn’t take one moment more of this madness. 

His ears popped as he flitted sharply to the side. **I told you, my name’s Bluestar!** he sent angrily, as he got to his feet. **Son of Weatherbird and Cheipar. Chief Sparkstone invited me here and if you don’t take me to the Holt right now I swear–** 

The sounds of the brawl stopped abruptly. “Cheipar?” the young male repeated. 

“Cheipar,” the female said. 

“Nngh, my head,” Burl moaned. 

“He said Cheipar.” 

“He said Cheipar?” 

“He said Cheipar!” 

The three elves set to murmuring in their slurred speech. Finally the female cried, “Waykeeper will want to know!” 

Thank the High Ones! Bluestar let out a sigh of relief. Finally, he was getting somewhere. 

“Poke Waykeep–ow! Leave it, Foxglove!” 

“Don’t talk scat about Waykeeper!” the female said, in a tone that brooked no dispute. 

“Waykeeper will know what to do,” Elm agreed. 

“He’s not riding with me!” Burl protested. 

“He’ll ride with me,” Foxglove decided, seizing Bluestar’s arm. 

“Hey–” Bluestar began. But Foxglove hauled him over to her wolf. He summoned his strength to flit again, but before he could, she wrestled a leather sack over his head, sealing him off in darkness. 

“And get that bug too!” 

* * * 

Blindfolded, he was unable to flit. Bound, he could only lean against Foxglove’s arms as her wolf bore them both into the unknown. The ride seemed to go on forever, but at last the wolf slowed to a trot, then a walk, then he felt himself being lifted up and thrown over a broad shoulder – possibly Burl’s – and jostled up and down up a series of steps. He could hear muffled, unfamiliar voices all around him. Some laughing, some singing and whooping. Had he arrived in the middle of a feast? He considered sending for help, but he didn’t want to antagonize his captors anymore. His parents had taught him his wolf-manners well. When caught, submit. Retaliate later. 

And he planned on retaliating, as soon he could find some itchleaf. Or prickers. Or if all else failed, a disapproving elder. 

They carried him into a tree-den – he recognized the sudden change in the sounds, the particular insulating quality of a proper walls. Burl’s voice boomed “Waykeeper!” He sounded only slightly sobered. 

Footsteps and the rustles of leathers. “Too loud!” a voice hollered back, followed by huffs and grunts. “Well? What?” Then a sharp hiss of breath. “Is–” 

Burl set him down on the floor of the den. “Fresh prey!” Foxglove cried dramatically. “Waykeeper, we present… your nephew!” 

The hood came off Bluestar’s face and he blinked up at his sire’s youngest brother. 

“Bluestar…” Littlefire breathed. He dropped to his knees to better regard him. Eyes almost the exact stormy-blue shade as Cheipar’s studied him carefully. Then the elder let out a noise that could only be described as a squeak and hurled his arms around the child’s shoulders. 

“Finally! My hands touch with joy!” 

“Unh, h’llo Uncle,” Bluestar mumbled. “My hands would touch with joy too, but…” 

Littlefire drew back, took in Bluestar’s bound hands. The glare he turned on Foxglove was quite terrifying, as was the wolf’s snarl that issued from his throat. “What. Did. You. Do?!” 

“We were just playing…” Foxglove said bashfully. 

“Playing? Redblade’s bones aren’t scattered yet and you’re playing?!” 

“We honor Redblade–” Foxglove began. 

“By getting addled when you’re meant to be on watch?” 

“We’ve every right to share in the dance–” Burl protested. 

“Dung!” Littlefire produced a piece of flint, as if by magic, and sliced through Bluestar’s bonds. “You shame Redblade and you shame the Way!” 

Bluestar turned just in time to see the younger male stammer his regrets and flee out of the door. Foxglove and Burl stood their ground, the female cringing and the male defiant. 

“At least we danced for him!” Burl grumbled. “Least we howled in joy and not sorrow! Seems we keep the Way better than some.” 

“Dung chips, Burl,” Foxglove moaned into her hand. 

When Littlefire got to his feet, he towered over both the Wolfriders. A low snarl rose in the back of his throat and both Foxglove and Burl lowered their heads in submission. 

“Grandson of Kahvi!” Littlefire barked. “Daughter of Strongbow! We are older than the Evertree itself! And you dare to instruct us in the Way?” 

“He didn’t mean–” Foxglove mumbled. 

Littlefire seized each by the scruff of the neck, and hauled them from the tree-den. Bluestar heard a series of thuds and felt the floor shiver under his feet; he imagined the two of them tumbling down the treeshaped steps. 

Littlefire stalked back inside, shoving the hide curtain aside. “Sorry,” he said, and his voice was back to the gentle shush Bluestar remembered from their meetings on the astral plane. “That was Kit. Mostly.” 

Right. Bluestar had to remember that. “Hello, Kit. It’s nice to meet you – both – in the flesh.” 

Littlefire dropped himself down onto the floor of the den, crossing his long legs and returning to his intense study of Bluestar’s face. “You look more like him in the flesh. In spirit you look more like her. Funny how that works. Why didn’t you send to us? We would have come to meet you ourselves.” 

“I howled. And… they found me.” 

“Did they frighten you?” 

“No. Not really.” He rubbed his sore wrists as he looked around the den. It reminded him very much of the dens in the Great Holt, though the details were different: furs instead of woven cloth, leather pouches on pegs instead of carved wooden shelves. 

“We – we must send to Sparkstone,” Littlefire said. “He’ll want to know you’re here. Is that all you come with?” 

Bluestar noticed his rucksack sitting on the floor; one of the hunters must have deposited it. Suddenly he remembered: “Waterleaf!” 

A muffled hiss answered. Bluestar tugged the clasps loose and freed a cramped and cursing Preserver. “Spoor heads! Nastybad emptyhead growler highthings! Make Waterleaf dung vexed!” 

Littlefire clapped a hand over his mouth to hold in his laughter. “You taught it to swear?” 

“It just sort of… picked it up,” Bluestar admitted. 

“Good. Why shouldn’t Preservers learn new things?” Littlefire grew serious again. “It’s good you brought laughter. We need some here, now more than ever.” 

Bluestar nodded to the muted sounds of revelry outside. “It sounds like someone’s happy.” 

“The ‘terrible joy’ we call it. The Death Dance.” Littlefire heaved a sigh. “We are Waykeeper – so we are named, so we must do. But we don’t have to like it.” 

“Someone died?” 

“Redblade. Got himself killed two nights past. The whole Hunt will ‘honor’ his spirit with drunken follies and hare-brained rutting! And if someone else dies, so much the better.” A sneer contorted Littlefire’s ageless features. “We need fresh blood after all. Can’t get new blood without spilling old first. Sorry. Sorry, you don’t need to hear this. Not now. Time enough for that later.” Littlefire looked up. “Here comes Sparkstone.” 

Bluestar got to his feet to greet the chief. The great-great-grandson of Redlance was a solemn elder with dark auburn hair bound in chief’s lock, and a dusting of facefur on his chin and cheeks. The wolfblood endured in this branch of Timmorn’s line, though heavily diluted. When Sparkstone smiled gently in greeting, Bluestar thought he saw something of Klipspringer about him. 

Klipspringer was his great-uncle, yet Sparkstone seemed so much older. Was it the work of his mortal blood, or simply the harder life these Wolfriders chose to live? And why did Sparkstone stare at him with such awestruck eyes, like he was witnessing a marvel? 

Someone at Oasis had looked at him like that, but he couldn’t remember who. 

“I wish more of our tribe had their wits about to properly welcome you,” Sparkstone said. “But we’ve one more day to dance for Redblade before I can call council. So you’re to stay with us until the death-sleep? I hear this is the last stop on your grand tour. How many years have you been wandering the world now?” 

“Two and a half.” 

“I’m… frankly astonished your parents can bear it. They must miss you terribly – so must everyone at the College. You are the first cub born there in countless years, are you not?” 

“Oh, but I talk to my parents all the time,” Bluestar said, tapping his head for emphasis. 

“Weatherbird and Cheipar have never been keener-hawks about him,” Littlefire added, when Sparkstone’s brow knit in concern. 

“Well, you’re no Wolfrider child, that’s for sure,” Sparkstone said lightly. 

Bluestar couldn’t help the scowl that overtook his face. “What else would I be?” 

“I only mean: if you belonged to us, we’d never part with you. Children are far too precious.” 

This time Bluestar kept his expression blank. Mother would want him remember his manners. 

Littlefire came to him aid. “You might remind Burl and Foxglove of that fact. They were tossing him about like he was a fox in a snare.” 

Sparkstone rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’ll strike one of them now… my grandfather always said an elf is never truly ready to grow up until he has a cub counting on him.” 

“Tell that to Furrow.” 

“Furrow’s all right. Better than some, no worse than most.” 

“High praise.” 

“He serves his purpose, Waykeeper. As we all must.” 

They were talking over Bluestar’s head, in more ways than one. He could sense a wealth of unsaid words passing between them: a secret language he didn’t understand. Yet. 

He moved to the window and brushed the stiff hide curtain aside. The morning sun was finally beginning to burn off the fog. “Can I go see the Holt now?” he asked. 

“Aren’t you weary?” Sparkstone asked. “It’s well past sunrise.” 

“I’m still on Oasis time. Please?” he flashed his most charming smile. It would have earned him an arched eyebrow and a swat from the trollkin, but Sparkstone melted instantly. 

“Of course, cubling.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Littlefire said dryly. 

* * * 

His father had warned him, during their most recent communion, about what he might find at the Evertree. “Their Way is not ours,” he’d said. “It hasn’t been for a long time.” 

“They’ve kept the old Way. Like the Wolfriders before Swift’s time?” 

“Yes. We respect the worldsong, but they live it. They embrace it all. For good or ill.” 

Looking out at the remnants of the Death Dance, he understood what Cheipar meant. 

The Evertree was really many trees – a great circle of oaks framing a clearing some fifty paces across. Branches shaped into great vaulted arches held up the aerial walkways and burl-shaped dens. Wolf skulls and stag antlers hung over doorways and stood guard at bridges. Often the antlers were affixed directly to the wolf’s skull, putting Bluestar in mind of the Shapechanged of Oasis. In the center of the clearing the tribe had erected a large fire-pit, lined with heavy stones. 

Now the fire was down to glowing coals, and some twenty-five elves lay sprawled around it. Some wore threadbare furs, poorly tanned and without ornamentation. Others were nude, their limbs streaked with mud and laced with scars both fresh and old. One elf had lost his arm just above the elbow, rather like Haken. But while Haken always kept his stump hidden like a secret, the Wolfrider flaunted it, even in repose. 

Most Wolfriders had fallen unconscious, yet a few hardy revellers were still determined to celebrate. One naked elf was in the process of draining an entire waterskin in one draught – though Bluestar doubted it held anything as innocuous as water – while his comrades cheered him on. A maiden took a running start and hurled herself across the dying hearth. She made the jump, but only just, and Bluestar winced as she came down hard on her ankle. She cried out, a shriek of defiance rather than pain, and her mates hooted their approval. 

“Ayooooah!” the wine-drinker threw down his now empty skin. “Redblade’s spirit can never tire, and neither we will!” He caught up his companion – it was Foxglove, already recovered from her shaming – and whirled her around, before the effort made him lose his balance. They both toppled to the ground, cackling with glee. 

“In the old days, we howled for the dead, and shared memories in stillness,” Littlefire explained. “Kahvi’s kin taught us a new way.” 

“It’s a good way,” Sparkstone said mildly. “We exalt life and death with equal passion. We burn away our grief and turn it to triumph. It’s fitting Redblade died when he did. The death of white-cold and the birth of newgreen. One soul leaves us and another arrives.” 

“Redblade’s spirit won’t be too happy,” Littlefire remarked, “if his death bought us nothing more than a visit from Bluestar.” 

“Bluestar is only the beginning. He is the lark that heralds sunrise. There will be cubs again! New lives always replace those lost.” 

“Poetic. You’ve become a songshaper in your old age.” 

“And you’ve become bitter.” 

“Just weary,” Littlefire said. “It’s so tiring: watching the same mistakes being repeated… over and over.” 

Sparkstone indicated the revellers. “There is comfort in the ‘Now of Wolf-thought,’” he said, though he didn’t sound as if he meant it. 

“An indulgence the Waykeeper cannot afford. Nor a chief, for that matter.” 

“No, I suppose not,” Sparkstone admitted sadly. 

* * * 

“You don’t like the Way, do you?” Bluestar asked one evening. They sat in Littlefire’s den, overlooking the central clearing. The hunters were gathered around the fire, laughing and singing as their deer slowly roasted on the spit. 

“The Way is like death. You don’t have to like it. But you need to accept it.” Littlefire thought about it moment, frowning. “No. No, that’s not right. We like parts of it.” He shook his head, as if to chase away buzzing insects. “It’s like rain. We like a cloudburst on a summer day. We hate a downpour – a flash flood. It all in the details. But in the end, it’s all the same water.” 

Bluestar could understand that. In his month at the Evertree, he had seen much to admire about the Wolfriders: their self-sufficiency and purpose, the way they lived in harmony with the world instead of setting themselves above it. Every Wolfrider knew how to survive by wits and skill alone, and no one was allowed to be idle – even Bluestar himself had been put to work upon arrival: catching crayfish, scraping hides, picking the first buds of the season. He went to sleep every morning weary, yet proud of his hard work, and he slept better than he ever had in Oasis. 

Some facets of the Way were harsher, but he could understand them, even if he didn’t like them. The privileges afforded the Hunt, the way they monopolized the freshest meat and the best furs – there was wisdom even in that. A wolfpack depended on its hunters, and nature made few allowances for the weak and sickly. “Every wolf must kill his own meal,” went the saying. And so the Hunt gorged themselves while the Holtbound made do with stews from scraps and soup from bones, supplemented with roots and nuts, and the fish they caught in the stream. 

It seemed cruel, yet Bluestar could see the wisdom in it. The Hunt might be gone for months, or fall victim to sickness, or fail to bring in enough meat. The Holtbound – the elders, the crafters and the injured – all had to be able to take care of themselves. Disaster could strike the Holt overnight, yet even the weakest survivor would be able to endure. It made a striking change from Oasis, where the Sun Folk did not so much as draw their own water – why bother, when the trollkin had fitted pumps to the wellspring? 

But this night was different. The hunt had brought back a large stag for the hearth, and invited all the Wolfriders to share in the feast. Not everyone had accepted, though. Littlefire kept to his own den, as did the healer and his lifemate, and several other somber elders. And there Bluestar found a part of the Way he found inexcusable. 

Wolfrider hunters had once cherished their elders – those who lived long enough facefur were valued for their wisdom and their memories. But among the Hunt facefur was an embarrassment, a sign of enfeeblement. Bluestar better understood Burl’s foul temper now – at two thousand years old, he was considered past his prime, and treated accordingly by his fellow hunters. Furrow, the grim-faced leader of the Hunt, was himself a mere three hundred. By elfin reckoning he was barely a stripling. 

And wild children were what the Holtbound considered the Hunt. So even when the Hunt chief tried to call a communal meal, many of the Holtbound refused to partake. Bluestar had seen division in Oasis – Melati’s faction set against Leetah’s, the farmers against the Gliders. But they still came together at festival time. And they all acknowledged Haken as their overlord. But the Wolfriders had two rival chiefs, constantly vying for dominance. 

Bluestar perched on the window’s very edge. The deer was almost roasted, and now the scarred Chief of the Hunt rose to address his followers. So named for the jagged scar on his right cheek, Furrow wore his hair bound up in a crude’s chief’s lock, secured by a pair of stag’s antlers. He raised his short-sword and pierced the calloused palm of his hand, then held it aloft over the roast, so that bright droplets of his own blood mingled with the juices of the venison. 

“Three eights of chiefs before me have sung the bloodsong,” he declared, “and run with pack and herd!” 

“Timmorn Yellow-Eyes,” the elves intoned, in time with the fall of the blood drops. “Threetoe the Father. Threetoe the Son.” 

“When our foreparents the High Ones first came to this world, it was the wolves who taught us to eat good red meat, and to shun the sunny places where humans prowl!” 

“Preypacer. Two-Spear. Icetooth. Kahvi.” 

“It was the stags who taught us to fight bravely each high-sun and die boldly each white-cold.” 

“Kiv. Redlance.” 

**He’s leaving a few out there, but nevermind,** Littlefire remarked. 

“Wren! Strayshot! Hotblood!” the Hunt’s communal chant grew ever louder. “Render! Brightberry! Splinter! Sunseeker!” 

“I don’t know any of these names,” Bluestar protested. 

“Why would you? There’s not been one worthy of the chief’s lock since Wren left us.” 

“Nettle! Dawncall!” 

“What about Sparkstone?” Bluestar whispered, looking down at the sad-eyed Holt chief who sat at the edge of the circle with his lifemate, his children and his grandchildren. But Bluestar suspected he knew the verdict already. 

“Sparkstone!” the Hunt lingered only a moment on the chief’s name before moving on, as if he were long dead. Sparkstone gave no reaction, nor did his close family. They watched the spectacle the way the elves of the College might watch a human dance, with a polite but detached amusement. 

“Half-Elk! Boldblade! Dancer! Crag!” 

“I miss Dancer,” Littlefire sighed. “She had a head on her shoulders.” 

Before a twenty-fifth drop could fall, Furrow closed his fist. “Three eights and one are your Hunt chiefs!” 

“Furrow! Furrow!” the Hunt cheered. 

“Wren’s girl Sunstill tried to take the chief’s lock after he gave it up,” Littlefire explained. “She had the vision to lead the Wolfriders, but not the strength to enforce her will. After Strayshot defeated her in a challenge, there was no going back. The Holtbound continued to defer to her lead, while the Hunt would only follow the strongest and fiercest. They followed Sparkstone for a time. Until someone younger and hungrier displaced him.” He saw Bluestar’s skeptical gaze and shrugged. “It’s our Way.” 

“Well, it’s not a good one!” Bluestar protested. 

“No, I’m sure to your eyes, it isn’t. But what can we do? Be Haken and force the Hunt to bow their heads? Be Two-Edge and hammer the Holtbound into sterner stuff? Wolves won’t take a bridle, and stags hold their horns high.” 

Below, Furrow was still speaking. “Our hunt-brother Redblade has gone to his rest. And another will soon take his place in the pack!” 

“Ahhhh…” Littlefire sat up at attention. “So this is why he’s invited everyone in.” 

An elf-woman stood. She was among the smallest of the Hunt elves; her long-fingered hands and delicate frame seemed better suited to life in the Holt than on wolfback. A bottom-wolf by the way she hunched her shoulders, uncomfortable with the stares of her kin. Though considering every female gaze around the pit was laced with envy and bitterness, even a chief wolf would have trouble standing tall. 

“So, it’s to be Rue,” Littlefire remarked. “Poor thing. She’ll never suckle it for more than a moon-dance before some other girl steals it away.” 

“What?” 

“A Wolfrider cub belong to the tribe,” he said, and Bluestar heard an old sadness in his words. “Everyone must have hand in raising them… no matter how much you might want to keep them to yourself.” 

Below, the males all offered their congratulations in loud howls. The females looked sullen. They had clearly all hoped to be the next mother in the tribe. “I don’t understand,” Bluestar said. “If they want cubs, why not get the healer to force Recognition? They don’t seem to use him for anything else!” 

“Ahh, but that’s one trick Duskwind never mastered. And anyway… cubs without Recognition goes against the Way.” 

Bluestar stared at him sharply. “It’s cheating,” Littlefire explained. “As much as asking Duskwind to heal a scar, or getting Waterleaf to seal up some meat for later. We live by the worldsong. If the wolf can’t use magic why should the Wolfriders? It’s a hard change from Oasis, isn’t it? But look at that deer: it didn’t want to die – it fought with all its might to keep living. If the Hunt was to take it down with magic, it wouldn’t stand a chance. Nothing would. If we could breed like humans and still live forever, we’d overrun the forest. And if we lived like Oasis elves, we would lose the right to call ourselves part of the world. That doesn’t matter to them. But it matters to us. The Way… it’s about balance. It’s about being the equal of the world’s creatures. It’s about the pact Timmain made with the wolves.” 

“The blood,” Bluestar said. 

“Yes. It binds us to the world… and all the world’s rules.” 

“But the wolfblood’s grown so thin now. Half of the tribe doesn’t even have it.” 

“And that’s made it all the most precious to those who carry it. Our dear Mink was the last of the full-blooded Wolfriders. And you know what became of her.” 

Bluestar nodded gravely. Frankly, he marvelled that Littlefire stayed with the Wolfriders, after that. 

“But the ideal lives on: of withering like the plants in the death-sleep, of somehow being stronger – purer – by one’s closeness to death. The first that burns the brightest dies the swiftest.” 

“Like Redblade? Sunstill told me.” 

Littlefire’s eyes narrowed. “What did she tell you, exactly?” 

“That Redblade was starting to grow his facefur. That he was complaining that his knee hurt, that Furrow and Briarlash were making fun of him for it. He was afraid he’d shame the Hunt. He said he’d rather go out proud and strong, and let someone else take his place..” 

“He made his choice.” Littlefire said darkly. “Every elf is allowed to choose his own path – even if it’s a stupid one. But it’s hard for Sunstill. She had hopes for him.” 

Now Rue was struggling to find her voice, to address the Hunt. “My child will be born in two turns of the season. And to honor Redblade, boy or girl, this child shall be called Redfawn! So that we never forget his brave sacrifice.” 

“Brave sacrifice!” a female voice jeered in scorn. Bluestar swivelled about on his perch to better regard Kit’s granddaughter Sunstill, as she stalked out of her den. 

One glance was enough to tell she bore the blood so prized by the Hunt. While her face was still unlined, great age had hollowed out the flesh beneath her cheekbones, and given her skin a translucent pallor. She wore a long elkskin dress, trimmed with ravvit fur to ward off the chill. Her steel-gray hair was all but hidden under a cumbersome hood. 

“There’s no bravery in rushing headlong to death,” she snapped. “Is the stag brave that runs – blind with panic – off a cliff to escape a wolf’s jaws?” 

“Peace, Mother,” Sparkstone began to speak. “Redblade knew the danger–” 

“Sparkstone the Peacemaker,” Littlefire drawled. 

“Better a life lived full in the bloodsong and death of his own choosing than to endure a shrivelled old husk like you!” Burl hurled back. “Better a white-cold and the new-green that follows than an endless stale summer!” 

“It is the Way!” another hunter cried. “Deaths and terrible battles and new lives to replace those lost!” 

“Aye! The old owe it to the tribe, to cede their place to those yet to be born!” 

“Wonderful,” Sunstill drawled. “And who will have to die next time, so that your Redfawn can have an agemate? Will you choose, Furrow?” 

“Why don’t you die, you old bag of bones? You’re of no use to anyone now. Make way for a new Wolfrider – a proper Wolfrider!” 

Sparkstone was trying to say something, Bluestar saw, but he couldn’t make himself heard. 

“What do you know of a proper Wolfrider, Furrow?” Littlefire’s booming voice startled them all. “You’ve never met one! Your great-great-grandsire chased the last true Wolfrider out of this Holt!” 

Furrow frowned. Clearly he had no idea who Littlefire meant. The howlpainter waved his hand. “Oh, nevermind. Long before your time. Congratulations, Rue. I look forward to teaching little Redfawn how to read howls.” 

Several hunters snickered at the idea. “Thank you, Waykeeper,” Rue mumbled. “But I’d rather my cub learned to read tracks.” 

“Of course you would.” Littlefire made a sudden grimace and shook his head irritably. “The smaller truth within the larger one, right? Everything changes. Nothing changes. It all comes full circle.” 

“Full circle!” Foxglove cried out, and several other hunters took up the cry as if it were a chant of victory. Littlefire turned away from the window. Bluestar followed. 

“It’ll all be over in another turn of the circle,” Littlefire sighed. “Furrow will get himself killed, and someone wiser will take his place and lead the Hunt back to some sense. Or the Hunt will fall even farther, until they all dash their brains out. Then the Holt will breed a new tribe. We’ve done it before.” His head jerked sharply to one side. “Of course we’ll do it again. What other choice do we have? No… no, there is something worth salvaging here. It’s night right now, that’s all. The sunrise will come. It always does. And we’ll do it all over again. High Ones…” he seized a forelock of hair and twisted it tightly. “The same pokin’ howl over and over. But what can we do? Everything changes and nothing changes. No, I don’t accept that! I can’t!” 

He looked up abruptly, aware that Bluestar was staring. “Sorry. Sorry, we’re being too loud, aren’t we?” 

“You… are you two arguing?” Bluestar asked. 

Littlefire blushed slightly. “Even lifemates don’t always agree. I’m sure your parents don’t.” 

“No, but they don’t share a shell. Can… can I ask…?” 

“We’d rather you didn’t. Not tonight. I… we’re tired, Bluestar. But you go down and eat, when they carve up that deer. No reason you can’t share in the feast.” 

* * * 

The following evening, Foxglove ambushed him on the way to the creek. “Fishing? That’s an old elf’s chore. You ought to come riding with us, Bluestar. Elm and I are going out to rustle up a ravvit or two.” 

“No thanks.” 

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still sore about our greeting. It’s been a full moon-dance! Come on, live in the Now!” 

“I promised I wouldn’t go hunting. I tried that in Oasis and it didn’t end well.” He still couldn’t recalled exactly what had happened after his ill-advised flitting over the Shambles, but he remembered the concerned faces that pressed in around him after he awoke in Leetah’s room. 

“In Oasis?” Foxglove screwed up her face. “I thought they grew all their food there. What is there to hunt?” 

“Nothing. You’re right. They don’t hunt in Oasis. They don’t die either. Do you know, they haven’t had anyone die there in over four thousand years. His name was Yosha, and they still mourn him!” 

Yosha… an elf not much older than Bluestar when he died. The memory haunted his dreams sometimes, though he couldn’t quite say why. 

“Why?” Foxglove sounded genuinely baffled. 

“Because they miss him! Don’t any of you miss Redblade?” 

“Of course we do. But he’s gone on, and we will too. Missing him won’t bring him back. And we’ll soon have a new cub. These are happy days!” 

“In Oasis, they have cubs whenever they want them. If no one Recognizes on their own, they just go to the healer and she’ll make it happen.” She made other things too, but he doubted Foxglove would understand. 

“And no one would ever call an elder a useless bag of bones when she’s grieving a friend’s death!” he finished, full of righteous anger. 

Foxglove had the good grace to look ashamed. “That was just fireside talk. Anyway, Sunstill shouldn’t be sad. Redblade is still with us – his spirit lives on in the wind and the water and the trees.” 

“Did Redblade fall on purpose?” he pressed. 

“I don’t know. It all happened very fast. He was trying to seize the stag’s horns and he missed. But the stag fell when it trampled him, and we were able to bring it down,” she added triumphantly. 

“So that's all one elf's life is worth? One deer?”. 

“What? Should an elf's life be worth more than a stag's? Why?” 

“Are you still addled?” Bluestar blurted. “Because… because it is! Because deer can’t reason or make things or use magic or anything elves can! Because they are–” 

“Prey?” 

“Yes!” Bluestar exclaimed. High Ones! It was worse than trying to reason with Jethel! 

“Everyone knows that the prey has to outnumber the hunters!” he went on. “One wolf’s life is sustained by countless lesser beasts.“ 

“And how’d you learn that bit of woodslore in your stone Egg?” 

“My father,” Bluestar said proudly. 

“And he taught you such little respect for your prey? ‘Lesser beasts’ – what rot is that? Every life is precious – the hunter’s no more than the prey’s. Each life is sustained by another’s, and each life must in turn serve another being! That’s the Way!” 

When she put it like that, he couldn’t find a retort quickly enough. No polite retort, anyway. 

“It's all right,” she said with a smile. “You'll understand when you're older. I'll help teach you. Just like I'll make sure little Redfawn will always remember the elf who gave up his life so a new cub could have a chance to breathe.” 

Stung, Bluestar nearly sneered: What happened to living in the Now? But then he reflected on her words, and the feeling behind them. “Did someone die so you could be born?” he asked. 

Foxglove nodded. “His name was Speargrass.” 

“A great hunter?” 

“Hardly. He was Holtbound. A gatherer and a crafter. Not really the best at anything. But he lived in the Now and he made those around him happy – that’s what my mother always said.” 

“What happened to him?” 

“Spirit-maker. It’s a kind of spider.” She shrugged, as if to say: Bad luck, but what you can you do? “I was born three years later. My cub-name was Sweetgrass to remember him. But I’ve never been very sweet. I’ll always remember him, though. And when I die, I know the next cub born will always remember me.” 

Bluestar could only shake his head. He couldn’t understand this way of thinking, any more than he could Oasis’s suffocating insularity. Once again he fought a pang of homesickness. He wanted to go back to the College – or the Great Holt, or even the tilting deck of the Sea Holt – somewhere where things made sense again. 

The crayfish traps were empty. Foxglove couldn’t hide her delight. “Good for them, seeing through your little tricks. I don’t hold with lures and traps. Give the prey a fighting chance, I say. They want to live as much as we do.” 

“Does everything have to be a fight?” 

She laughed. “That’s life, silly! That’s all life is – one big fight you can never quite win. One long walk through a snow-dream. What’s behind vanishes in white. What’ s ahead is covered in white. All you can see if your feet, moving in one front of the other. You keep walking until you can’t do it anymore. And then you stop. If you’re lucky, your long walk made a difference. But usually it doesn’t. Because now you can rest. Now, you can stop fighting.” 

“There are elves that go their whole lives without fighting.” 

Foxglove shrugged. “And there are elves that go their whole lives without really living.” 

* * * 

After his supper of stewed roots and ravvit, Bluestar flipped through the vellum pages of a howlbook. A History of the Four Holts, it was called, according to Littlefire. Bluestar couldn’t read a word of it. He was used to the straightforward script favored in all the other nations: words made of glyphs, each standing for a certain sounds, always read in straight lines. The Wolfrider script ran in all directions, each symbol’s meaning changing based on size, orientation, or even color. The text of the Four Holts ran in a diamond-shaped spiral, read from the outside to the center of the page. 

“More Wolfriders might learn to read if it was simpler,” Bluestar remarked. 

Littlefire shook his head. “You need the added layers or you lose the deeper meaning. Mink tried painting the howls down in troll script once. But the stories were so… flat – like music without melody.” 

“You miss Mink. Why don’t you go live with her?” 

“We tried once. When the tribe was at its lowest, under Render. Seemed there was nothing left for us here. But Blue Mountain wasn’t right either. Oh, Mink took to it well enough. But then Strayshot and the others had made life here such a misery for her after she gave up the wolfblood… she needed the change. And troll-velvet suits her. But we need the sky overhead and the smell of green growing places. So we came back. Just as well: Render didn’t last long, and the tribe needed us after all. We rebuilt. Things got better.” 

“And then they got worse again.” 

Littlefire shrugged. “Everything comes full circle. Have you studied the early howls of the Wolfriders? Life wasn’t a steady march uphill towards Swift, you know.” 

“So what are ‘the Four Holts’?” 

“Oh, that’s from Redlance’s day. When the Go-Backs first settled here. Not all of them could live by our Way. The older warriors like Kiv, they set up their own camp up north, near the edge of Snow Country. A few others went south, to hunt near the old troll caverns. And then, when the humans decided to test our borders, another handful set up a war camp to the west. And the riders would range between the four camps, sharing news and supplies.” 

“Sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you do that now? Rather than trying to share this holt?” 

“A fine idea. But who would stay and who would go? The Hunt won’t give up the Evertree willingly – and why would they? It’s their birthright too – yes, it is!” he added sharply, before shaking the thought away. “And there are none in the Holtbound fierce enough turn them out. Anyway, the Four Holts had their time… just like Bear Holt, just like Father Tree… just like the Wanderers... just like this mess with Furrow and Sparkstone.” 

“All right. So, the wheel keeps turning… or whatever. So what happens once Furrow and Sparkstone can’t keep the peace anymore?” 

Littlefire shrugged. “What will be, will be. Why?” He reached out over plucked up a lock of Bluestar’s silver hair. “What would you do, Chief Bluestar?” 

Bluestar shot him a glare. “You’re teasing me.” 

“You’re our nephew. We’re allowed.” 

“Well, fine. What would I do? I’d get rid of the extra chiefs, for one thing. Herds of deer might get by one than one strongest stag, but you’re Wolfriders! One chief wolf. The others follow or leave. That’s it. And you have to start sharing again. Your food, your ideas, your feelings! It’s great you can all take care of yourselves, but unless everyone depends on each other, what’s the point of a tribe? As it is, you’re all just… lone wolves. No wonder you don’t get along! And… you have to stop hiding in the forest. Trade with the other nations. Learn from them, and let them learn from you – it’s not that hard! What? Why are you laughing?” 

“We’re not, truly,” Littlefire said, trying to downplay his smile. “It’s only: oh, it’s been so long since we spoke to a cub. We forgot how… certain they are.” 

“Really? I thought you said the Hunt was nothing but cubs!” Bluestar considered it a moment, then added with a proud smile, “Maybe that’s why they keep pushing all you elders around, anyway. They know what they want and they’re sure they’re right! And you elders get all… I don’t know, muzzy-headed in your memories.” 

“Well done. You’ve cracked the riddle of the Evertree. All in one month! High Ones, what will do with five more?” 

“And you’re still teasing me!” 

“We’re sorry. We don’t mean to. It’s a good plan, Bluestar. With a strong chief behind it, it might even work. One with the right blood, and the will to make the others submit.” 

“I know: and it’s not me,” Bluestar said grudgingly He looked up at Littlefire through the curtain of his bangs. “But it could be you.” 

Littlefire gave a little start at that. “Us? Oh, no. We paint the howls. We don’t make them.” 

“But you could. Waykeeper: grandson of Kahvi, daughter of Strongbow. You could change things.” 

Littlefire stared at him a moment longer, his expression one of complete disbelief. Then gradually his gaze turned inward. A hand plucked at the sleeve of his tunic compulsively, as the two souls inside him contemplated the possibilities.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the full EQ Alternaverse at http://www.janesenese.com/swiftverse


End file.
